They hardly bothered to acknowledge their visitors but kept talking among themselves until Sir Walter struck the table with his hand.

‘Ah, good morning, Sir Walter,’ one of them said. ‘We have visitors?’

Their gaoler made the introductions. Routier, with his close face, was the first to greet them. Maneil, surly, his left eyelid drooping, constantly fingered the deep scar on his cheek. Vamier was pleasant-faced, or at least he smiled with his eyes. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to the blond-haired Gresnay who simpered in silent mockery at them. Their command of English was very good. They ignored Sir Maurice, just acknowledging his presence with nods of their heads. Athelstan was surprised but he whispered that, unlike the knights of chivalry, sea captains nursed animosities and jealousies: they regarded him as the cause of their misfortune. Sir Walter rearranged more chairs round the circular table. He offered some wine but Athelstan quickly refused.

‘I suppose you’ve heard about Serriem? Poor Guillaum?’ Routier glared at Sir Walter. ‘It’s all a sham,’ he railed. ‘We are prisoners, kept against our will, exorbitant ransoms are demanded. Now we are to be poisoned!’

Sir John got up and leaned across the table.

‘I am no sham, sir! If murder is committed, justice must be done!’

Routier blinked and sat back.

‘In which case,’ Gresnay lisped, flicking his blond hair, ‘you are going to have to perform a miracle.’

‘Now, why is that, sir?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Why, Brother,’ Gresnay replied, ‘all of us took an oath that we would not eat or drink anything someone else didn’t also taste.’

Gresnay’s words created a pool of silence.

‘I am sorry?’ Athelstan stammered.

‘Don’t you understand your own tongue, Brother?’ Vamier snapped. He tapped Gresnay on the arm. ‘Jean has spoken the truth.’

‘What is the truth?’ Sir John asked.

‘We are officers of the King of France,’ Vamier declared. ‘We are prisoners here but we fear for our lives. Sir Walter’s hatred for our nation is well known.’

‘And good reason for it!’ Sir Walter burst out.

‘Hush now!’ Athelstan held his hands up.

‘But it’s true,’ Vamier continued. ‘Why!’ He caught the look of puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes. ‘Hasn’t he told you? It was the St Denis which attacked Winchelsea when his wife and sons died.’ The Frenchman lifted his shoulders and spread his hands placatingly. ‘Of course, it was a different crew, different men. No man here would agree to the wanton slaying of a woman and her sons. But, Sir John, you have fought in France?’

Sir John nodded; Athelstan recalled himself and his brother Francis entering a French town which had been sacked by English archers. Women lay dead in the streets, their throats cut, their dresses pushed back and, beside them, young children. The glory of war had died at such sights. Athelstan glanced at Sir Walter. The knight’s face had grown pale, his lips were moving soundlessly, beads of sweat ran down his cheeks.

‘I’m no assassin,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Aye, I hate you. If I had my way, I’d see you all hang on the gallows for the pirates you are!’

A fight would have broken out but Sir John banged the table with his fists.

‘When did you take this oath?’ he asked. ‘What did it signify?’

‘When we came here,’ Routier said, ‘and we realised we were in the charge of Sir Walter.’ He gestured at the platter. ‘Sir Walter himself will tell you: we only eat from the same dish and drink from the same jug.’

‘And last night?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The same. We dined here on what was supposed to be some fish, drank the same putrid wine and ate the same mouldy bread.’

His companions lowered their heads to hide their amusement. Sir Walter would have retorted angrily but Athelstan caught his wrist.

‘They are only baiting you,’ he whispered.

‘If we met him on the field of battle,’ Gresnay declared, ‘we’d do more than that, Brother!’

‘One day you might!’ Sir Walter shouted, his lips flecked with spittle.

‘But there’s another reason, isn’t there?’ Athelstan asked.

The change in the French knights was remarkable. They dropped their lazy, insulting demeanour. Vamier shuffled back on his chair, Routier pulled across the wine jug and refilled his cup.

‘Come! Come!’ Athelstan insisted. ‘You are hardly a band of brothers, are you? After all, once you were cocks of the walk, masters of the Narrow Seas, and then one day your two ships are trapped between English men-of-war and the port of Calais.’

Taken in a fair fight!’ Routier protested. ‘Fortune’s fickle wheel and fortune is blind. Perhaps next time we meet, Sir Maurice will know what it’s like to be taken prisoner?’

‘Oh, answer the question!’ Sir John snapped. ‘Two French ships taken in one day! That smacks of treachery! You were expecting fat-bellied cargo ships full of wine from Bordeaux. Aye. The best claret, rich and red, the only good thing that comes out of France.’ The coroner grinned. ‘That’s not true, but we can sit here all day like little boys in a street insulting each other.’

‘We were betrayed.’ Vamier rapped the table-top with his fingers.

‘And the traitor could be among you now?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘It could have been anyone.’ Gresnay waved his hands.

Sir John smiled beatifically across at him.

‘Young man, I’m in London yet I know that, in French ports, men-of-war are being prepared. I know that. The seagulls know that, the rats on board ship know that.’ His face straightened. ‘But how many men know what’s contained in sealed orders? Come on, how many?’ He pointed at Routier. ‘I ask you a question, sir, how many people on the St Sulpice and the St Denis knew where you were to sail, when, and what your destination was?’

‘There were six of us,’ Routier admitted. ‘We four, Serriem and Dumanier. He was killed in the fight.’

‘So, if there was a traitor,’ Sir John continued sweetly, ‘it could have been Dumanier, although the Judas kind usually ensure that they are safe, it might have been Serriem or, gentlemen, one of you.’

The consequent silence was abruptly shattered by two of the great house cats which had trapped a rat further down the hall and were busy in its noisy destruction. Sir Walter drew his sword and went down. One of the cats, the rat dangling from his mouth, hurried off hotly pursued by his companion.

‘Death is all around us,’ Maneil observed.

‘And it may strike again,’ Athelstan replied. ‘We are not here, sirs, to play a part and walk away. The Regent himself has intervened. If there is a traitor among you, he may want you all dead. Or, there again, you may know who the traitor is? Was it Serriem? Did you carry out lawful execution of him? After all, you have just assured us that none of you eat or drink anything one of your companions does not partake of. Nevertheless, Serriem was poisoned.’

‘Are you saying we forced something between Serriem’s lips?’ Maneil asked.

‘It’s possible.’

‘But we dined together last night, Sir Walter’s guards all about us. We talked, we played chess, there was no feeling of resentment. Serriem was a good companion, a born sailor. If there is a traitor it certainly wasn’t him.’

Athelstan took out his ink horn, a sharpened quill and a square of parchment. He used a pumice stone to ensure it was smooth then he quickly wrote down their names and a short description and what he had learned. When he glanced up, the coroner was now sitting slouched in his chair, head back, mouth open, sleeping peacefully. Athelstan could tell the French were not impressed.

‘Sir John does not regard Serriem’s death as important,’ Gresnay quipped.

‘My lord coroner,’ Athelstan replied, putting his quill down, ‘is a hard working, very tired man who should be back in his own court, not listening to a pack of lies.’